"Wait! Wait! Best part. Almost forgot." Mitzi grabbed a black velvet case from her oversized Birkin bag. "A gift. Open."
Mara opened the case. Inside was a strand of luminescent pearls nestled on a velvet pillow.
"Mikimotos. They're only the cultured ones, sorry. But if you could remember to mention them if you can ..." Mitzi smiled.
"I don't know if I can accept these," Mara said nervously.
"What are you talking about? Please! You deserve it! You're so fabulous! God, why can't I get my hair to do that?" Mitzi said, sticking out her tongue and pulling at her hair. Mara had never met anyone as full of energy and enthusiasm as Mitzi Goober. She was like your new best friend, cheerleader, and guru all in one. She was giving Mara a headache.
As the messengers began to unload a second rolling rack, Mara tried to get them to put it back on the truck, with Madison and Zoe, wide-eyed at all the loot, at her heels. "Mitzi! Wait! Really, I can't!"
"Nonsense! Do you know how hard it is to find someone who
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fits into a sample size? Please. It would be such a great favor to my designers. They are your biggest fans."
Fans? She was an au pair who'd posed for a few pictures, and now she had a following?
Mitzi rattled a key chain in front of Mara's nose. "What are you driving? That Range Rover over there? It's so bulky, don't you think?"
"It's the Perrys', actually."
"I'd really love it if you could test-drive this new BMW convertible," Mitzi said, thrusting the keys into Mara's hands and motioning to a shiny black car on the driveway.
"A car?" Mara said, her mouth hanging open.
"For the whole summer. Every day we'll get someone to fill the gas tank and put some treats in there for you. Fun-fun-fun! So you won't have to worry."
Mara stared at the BMW keys. This was crazy. And exciting. She could actually keep all this stuff?
Zoe' and Madison had begun rifling through the racks. "Oooh, look at this!" Madison said, holding up a black jersey Gucci halter top. "Pretty!" Zoe said as she wrapped herself in a lacy shawl.
"Wait! Mitzi!" Mara said, running to catch up with the publicist, who had hopped into a vintage Citroen and was pulling out of the driveway. "I just--I don't know if this is right," Mara said, leaning in the window.
Mitzi put a hand to Mara's mouth, smushing her lipstick. "Dollink!"
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Doe wink? Door blink? Mara wondered.
"Don't be boring! Just remember, mention my clients when you talk to the press. Deal? Have a great summer! And I hope you come to my party at Seventh Circle next week! Toodles!"
Mitzi pulled out of the driveway and the Toyota Prius pulled in.
"Who was that?" Jacqui asked, getting out of the car with Philippe and the boys.
Mara looked around at what Mitzi had left her--two rolling racks full of designer clothes, several bags of shoes and accessories, a velvet case of pearls, and a shiny black BMW convertible.
"Um, I'm not really sure," Mara said, amazed at her good fortune. "My fairy godmother?"
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guess who's
coming to dinner?
TWO WEEKS AFTER ELIZA AND JEREMY WERE REUNITED at Seventh Circle, Eliza opened the door to find him standing on her doorstep with a bouquet of flowers. They had seen each other only once since then--Jeremy's brutal work schedule kept him in the city more often than not, and they'd already had to reschedule dinner twice. Her parents were totally harassing her to let them meet her "young man." They were old-fashioned that way, and Eliza hoped that the dinner would go well, or at least go quickly, so she and Jeremy could get out of there and finally be alone.
"For your mom," Jeremy said, handing her the white Astor lilies. Their clean fragrance filled the room.
"That's so sweet. Come on in," Eliza said. She'd worn her hair back in a demure chignon and had tied a black satin ribbon with an antique locket around her neck. She knew Jeremy liked it when she looked pretty and girlish, and so she'd chosen her clothes carefully--a white Chloe eyelet
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cotton dress and pink Delman ballet flats. She was pleased that he looked so professional in his tan linen suit and sky blue dress shirt. He'd loosened his conservatively striped tie just a bit, and he looked the perfect picture of a young, successful banker.
"Dad, this is Jeremy. Jeremy, this is my dad, Ryder Thompson," Eliza said, leading Jeremy into the living room. Her father, a tall, large man with a gleaming crown of silver hair, stood up to shake Jeremy's hand.
Ryder had worked on Wall Street, too, before he'd been caught dipping a little too often into the bank's coffers. Eliza still couldn't believe it had been such a big deal: It was his company, wasn't it? Didn't that count for something? Sure, she remembered how they used the company jet for weekend trips to Paris, but so what? The papers had said that even Eliza's two-hundred-thousand-dollar Sweet Sixteen party at the Rainbow Room was paid for by the company's dime, but plenty of her dad's associates were there, so it was sort of like a business function. In any case, that hadn't stopped the subsequent
investigation, lawsuit, and humiliation. The Thompson family had weathered it as best they could, keeping their chins up and finally hightailing it to Buffalo when Manhattan became unbearable and unaffordable.
Her parents had made it clear that it was very important that Eliza date a suitable boy, someone appropriate to her background and breeding, despite everything that had happened in
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the last couple of years. Eliza hoped Jeremy would pass her parents' litmus test. They could be a little strict when they chose to be, and for the first time Eliza missed the freedom she'd experienced last summer, when she'd lived on her own and hadn't had to answer to anyone except the Perrys, who were away or indifferent most of the time.
"Gin?" Ryder asked Jeremy, holding up a silver cocktail shaker.
"Whatever Eliza is drinking is fine, thanks, Mr. Thompson," Jeremy replied.
Eliza's dad frowned as he poured Jeremy a glass of white wine but made no comment. The four of them sank into the linen couch.
"I must apologize--this is not to our standard," Eliza's mother, Billie, said, her hands nervously fluttering about her throat as she looked at the collection of porcelain dolls in a china cabinet with distaste. "But Eliza did so want to be back in the Hamptons this year, and we thought..."
"It's very nice," Jeremy assured her. "I like these old houses. They have a feeling of security to them, don't you think?"
Eliza's mother smiled warmly at him. "I like older architecture as well."
"Jeremy grew up in the Hamptons," Eliza offered, unwittingly trying to make it sound like Jeremy was more like them. Not that she really cared what her parents thought--she didn't think like
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they did anymore, not really, anyway. If she did, she would have been after Garrett Reynolds, not Jeremy Stone. But it would just be so much easier if they liked him.
"Oh, where?" Billie asked, brightening.
"Southampton," Jeremy said.
There was a murmur of approval from the Thompsons. "Do you know the Rosses? Courtney started that lovely school. We almost moved out here too, so that Eliza could go there."
"I know Mrs. Ross," Jeremy allowed. He didn't add that he was their gardener, to Eliza's relief.
"Where in Southampton?" Eliza's father inquired.
Jeremy told him.
"Ah, is that in the township?" Ryder asked, referring to the considerably more modest section of single-family homes in Southampton called the township.
Jeremy nodded.
"How quaint," Billie nodded with a strained smile.
"What does your father do?" Ryder inquired.
"Jeremy's dad runs his own business." Eliza interjected. She could see where this was going.
"What kind of enterprise?" her dad asked.
"He owns a fish and bait shop on Route 27," Jeremy replied, before Eliza could fudge some other euphemism like, "He's in the shipping industry."<
br />
"Is it the one with the big neon salmon on the door?" Billie asked.
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"That's it!" Jeremy slapped his thigh.
"I think Colombia got some lovely oysters from there the other day, darling," Billie said, nodding to her husband. "They were delicious. So fresh."
Jeremy beamed, but Eliza felt the burden of impending disaster. This was not going well. Eliza knew her parents were snobs' snobs. They could figure out somebody's place in the social hierarchy in a heartbeat, and Eliza could see they were writing Jeremy off.
"Where do you go to college, dear?" Billie asked, continuing the interrogation as they sat down for dinner.
"I go to State," Jeremy said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "SUNY."
Ryder Thompson turned to his wife. "Isn't that Woody Allen's wife?" he joked.
Eliza stepped in. This was too painful. "He means State University of New York, Dad. In Nassau. It's not far from here."
"New York has a wonderful state university system," Billie said graciously.
Eliza squirmed in her seat. Jeremy was the first person in his family ever to go to college, and he was really proud of that. Don't hate me, her eyes pleaded, wanting him to look up so he could see how much she was on his side, but Jeremy kept his head down for the rest of the evening.
After coffee, the Thompsons took their leave, wishing
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Jeremy a courteous good night and reminding Eliza about her curfew.
"So do you want to go for a ride somewhere? Maybe take a walk on the beach?" Eliza asked, standing up from the table. She wanted to apologize for her parents, but she was still holding on to the hope that Jeremy hadn't noticed they were total snobs.
"Nah," Jeremy shook his head. "I have an early meeting tomorrow. I should get back."
Eliza's face fell. They weren't even going to hang out? It was her one night off from the club and she'd been looking forward to seeing him all week.
Jeremy slung his coat jacket over his shoulder and walked toward the door. Eliza opened it for him and followed him to the porch.
"What about dinner next week at Lunch--just the two of us?" Eliza asked. She hated how desperate she sounded.
"Maybe." He sighed. "Things are really busy at the office."
"Don't go," she said, her lips trembling. She lifted up her chin to be kissed, willing him to understand.
Jeremy sighed and looked like he was about to walk away, but he bent his head down instead. They stood under the porch light kissing for what seemed to Eliza to be a sweet eternity.
"I love you, you know," she said, muffled into his shirt.
"I know," he said, reluctantly pulling away. "But I've got to
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get back into work early tomorrow, and I can't miss the last train." He climbed into his rusty pickup truck, the one remnant of his former occupation.
Eliza watched him drive away and wondered when she would see him again. She hadn't failed to notice that when she'd said, "I love you," he hadn't said it back.
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kryptonite is to superman as boys are to jacqui
TO JACQUI'S CHAGRIN, THE SAT PREP CLASS SHE'D SIGNED up for was filled with overachieving rich kids who were striving for nothing less than a perfect showing--which made her scores on the first diagnostic test even more depressing. Jacqui had just stuffed her SAT books in the backseat of the Prius that evening when she saw Philippe ride up on a Vespa. He took off his helmet and shook out his hair. "Arrete!" he said when he saw Jacqui.
She leaned against the door of the car and smiled. "What's up?"
He shrugged, smiling his devastating grin. "Pas beaucoup. Where are you going?"
"Class," she explained. "It's Wednesday, remember?"
Jacqui had told him about the class the other night, when he'd stumbled in around midnight and found her studying her SAT book. She told him about her SAT prep course, and he'd affectionately teased her about what a distraction she must be to
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all the dorks in the class. Philippe's plan for his life was to win the Rolex tennis invitational, turn pro, follow the circuit, and generally have a great time bouncing from one sunny resort town to another. His entire ambition in life was to become a tennis bum.
"Come play pool with me instead," Philippe invited. "You can skip one class, no? He smiled roguishly, looking her up and down in an inviting manner.
Jacqui bit her lip. Playing pool with Philippe sounded like so much more fun than sitting in a damp basement solving word problems. She'd hardly had a bit of excitement in weeks. To think that she, Jacqui, was actually the one who was shouldering most of the work with the kids. She was proud of that, since she did have a knack for it, but she missed having fun.
Philippe took her hand, and they tiptoed to the main house. They made their way to the screening room, where a billiard table sat in the corner. One of the most amazing things about the Perrys' house was that there was hardly ever anyone home to enjoy its wealth of amusements. The twins were always out at some party, Ryan kept to his room when he was home, and the many toys--the sixteen-foot projection screen, the ATVs parked next to the beachfront, the vintage Pac Man and pinball machines--mostly went unused. Philippe racked the balls and Jacqui broke, sinking a solid yellow ball in a corner pocket.
"So where've you been anyway?" she asked, rubbing chalk
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on her pool cue. Philippe had been MIA for a few days. She leaned over the table to assess her next shot. She flubbed an easy one, sending a ball to the opposite corner instead of the near pocket.
"I had to go visit the French consulate and Anna needed me to help with something, so we spent a couple of days in New York," he said, walking around the table and studying the angles for his shot.
"Mmmm . . . Just the two of you?"
Philippe shrugged and sank a striped ball. "Oui. Have you been to their townhouse in the city? It's beautiful," he said.
Jacqui felt ridiculous for feeling a little jealous, but she did. She'd been so sure Philippe was interested in her--but even though they slept next to each other almost every night, he never even tried to make a move. Even though she'd promised herself not to be distracted by boys this summer, she hadn't counted on not being a distraction herself.
"I love New York," Jacqui said dreamily. She'd never actually even been to the city, but the place loomed large in her imagination. The busy streets, the people, the little cafes, the nightclubs, the shopping. Jacqui loved Brazil, but she was looking forward to making her future in New York. "It's the best city in the world."
Philippe grunted, leaning down for a shot.
"I want to stay in New York next year," she said wistfully.
He looked up from the pool table. "Pourquoi?"
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She told him excitedly about her plans for Stuyvesant and hopefully NYU and how she hoped Anna would help get her a nanny position if she did a good job this summer.
They played, matching each other ball for ball, until only the black eight-ball was left. It was in a precarious position, and Jacqui hunkered down, twisting her body so she could aim with the cue.
"You have to keep one leg on the floor," Philippe reminded her, as Jacqui's mule heels dangled from the table.
"I'm trying!" she laughed.
"Like this," Philippe said, coming up behind her and gently guiding her arms. She let him press on the stick and release it. The ball shot into the corner pocket.
"So who won?" Jacqui asked, turning her head toward him. Philippe still had his arms around her.
"Call it even," he said, leaning down to smell her hair. He pressed against her back, and Jacqui felt the heat from his body. It was too much to resist. She melted into him, shuddering as he planted soft kisses down her neck. She closed her eyes and turned toward him. As if he'd read her mind, he gently lowered her to the table, bumping her head on the overhead light.
"Oops!" she laughed, pulling him down on top of her. She felt his hands twine through
her hair as he kissed her neck and shoulders. She snaked her hands up behind his back.
"Jacqui?"
The lights in the screening room suddenly blazed on.
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Jacqui pushed Philippe off her, unintentionally kicking up the pool stick, which smacked him squarely on the forehead.
"Ouch!"
"What were you guys doing?" Zoe asked, holding a teddy bear. "Why are you on the pool table?"
This was exactly why the No More Boys rule had been invented.
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Nobody puts mara in the corner
IT WAS ANOTHER BUSY NIGHT AT SEVENTH CIRCLE, AND
Eliza was trying to keep up with the rush of impatient club goers storming the velvet rope. Kartik had advised her to let guests trickle in slowly, in small groups of two or three. That way there was always a long line at the door, which made the club look even more popular than it was.
Eliza scanned the crowd, looking for Jeremy. She hoped he would stop by the club again, but so far, he hadn't shown up. She hadn't seen him since the disastrous dinner with her parents the week before. She'd left him a couple of messages on his cell phone and at work, where some schmuck had answered the phone and asked her to spell her name twice. But he'd never called her back.
"Name?" she asked an older woman in a beige pantsuit who had wrestled her way to the front of the line.
"Margot Whitman," the lady answered sharply.
Eliza ran a nail against the list, searching intently. Wilson (Owen), Wilson (Luke plus one), Williams (Venus & Serena),
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W, Women's Wear Daily. "I'm sorry," she concluded. "You're not on the list," she said flatly. Kartik had advised her that the guest list rule only applied to "civilians." Models, or other fearsomely pretty girls, as well as celebrities and other VIPs could always get in, regardless of their guest list status. But as for regular people-- which this woman clearly was--they could freeze in hell before they were allowed inside Seventh Circle.